We should listen to the maniac in us more than we do. The other day, I had a conversation with a buddy about how damned boring people get as they get older. They become complacent, sunken people who just shrug and sigh and fall asleep early, in the permanent indentations in the couch. They're finished. They may as well be finished. They're just slowly getting to the bottoms of their bottles of wine and they're worried about the hair they're losing, or the hairs that are turning gray and it's about as exciting as it gets, as they shift through their channels, sitting in their pajama pants and slippers. They're through worrying about interesting and meaningful things. They're fascinated by all things mundane, as if they were titillating.

We long for bands like The Front Bottoms, a scrappy bunch of dudes who have plenty to worry about. They've got their panic attacks. They've got their shaky, nicotine-addicted hands fumbling for that next cigarette. They've got their school loans and shithead people to contend with. Somewhere in there, they've got to find the love that they're drawn to, that they feel must be out there for them, even if it's ragged and gristly. They've got much to put up with yet. They've got tons to rage against and they've found it hard not to stay in their heads, struggling desperately to not feel as if they're going mad, or soon will be.